"But it never struck
me they'd separate. I thought, of course, they'd drive straight to some
hotel, and--"
"And the long and the short of it is, Greyle's slipped you," said
Gilling. "Well--there's no more to be done tonight. The only thing of
value is that Greyle called at the Fragonard. What's a country
squire--only recently come to England, too!--to do with the Fragonard?
That is worth something. Well--Copplestone, we'd better meet in the
morning at Petherton's. You be there at ten o'clock, and I'll get Sir
Cresswell Oliver to be there, too."
Copplestone betook himself to his rooms in Jermyn Street; it seemed an
age--several ages--since he had last seen the familiar things in them.
During the few days which had elapsed since his hurried setting-off to
meet Bassett Oliver so many things had happened that he felt as if he
had lived a week in a totally different world. He had met death, and
mystery, and what appeared to be sure evidence of deceit and cunning and
perhaps worse--fraud and crime blacker than fraud. But he had also met
Audrey Greyle. And it was only natural that he thought more about her
than of the strange atmosphere of mystery which wrapped itself around
Scarhaven. She, at any rate, was good to think upon, and he thought much
as he looked over the letters that had accumulated, changed his clothes,
and made ready to go and dine at his club, Already he was counting the
hours which must elapse before he would go back to her.
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